Any Other Way
by violetlerdyn
Summary: John stared blankly out in front of him, realizing that the man was right; that they did not have enough time. Perhaps they never would have enough time. Johnlock. Sherlock crossover/AU with Never Let Me Go


**_Okay, so this is something I've been working on for a few days. Here it is, finally completed. It is a crossover/AU fic. BBC Sherlock and the movie Never Let Me Go. It's my first time writing for Sherlock, and my first AU fic. Also, it is unbeta'd and not brit-picked so excuse the mess ups and if there are any major ones, I'd love to hear about it. Thanks so much, hope you guys enjoy!_**

**_(These are not my characters, they belong to their respective creators. Also, Never Let Me Go is not mine either.)_**

**_(Also, I am bad at titles, sorry)_**

There was a dull grey cast to the sky as the clouds moved slowly past the sun. The lazy spirals were all John could look at as he laid on the grassy field that stretched across the grounds of Hailsham. The boarding school itself was an even deeper red color than normal from the strange light. He wondered if there were days when the school wasn't so large and intimidating, and _home. _Because he had known no other place, this large brick structure with its old rooms and wood floors was the closest thing to home he believed he would ever have.

When the sun looked a little close to the trees in the distance, he stood and brushed off the grass on his pants. John was a simple boy, with mousy brown hair that was a little blonde on the top from the sun. He wore the uniform permitted to him, as well as a large oatmeal jumper that was a little too big for him but it would suit him fine in a few years. He was small for his age, a little shorter than the other boys, but for what he lacked in height he made up for in spirit and a mean tackle in rugby. Where one would think John was a little small in stature, he was broad in the shoulders and walked with a confidence in his steps.

He made his way inside and into the rooms so he could change out of his jumper before supper was served, and was met with a large group of boys in the hallway. They were snickering, and John realized there must be someone in front of them all. He peered around them, and sure enough the boy surrounded by the group was standing defiantly in place.

"You can't know that about Mrs. Price." One boy said. His expression showed he was clearly fascinated and disbelieving.

Sherlock sneered at him; something that looked particularly nasty on his face, but almost like it was purposefully practiced to do so. He mumbled something about idiots and another boy shoved him on the shoulder lightly.

"Hey, don't be an arse." The shoving boy ordered.

"_I'm_ not being the arse in this situation." Sherlock replied, not even making eye contact.

"You go on about the teachers' lives and you won't tell us where you got the dirt?" Greg asked. John knew him from playing rugby out on the fields during sports.

"I don't sneak around playing detective like you, Greg." Sherlock countered. He turned to the shoving boy and gave him a sweeping glance. "And at least I don't sneak around in the gardens with Betty from Geography." Then, he gave a triumphant smirk as though he had won something, "Do you know she gives Mathew secret hand jobs in Art?"

The boy fumed, his face turning redder as Sherlock went on. Then, something seemed to snap at the last thing he said and the boy lunged. Sherlock had time to pull a wide eyed expression before he was flung against the wall from a punch to the face.

John rushed forward, eager to get a hold of the angry boy before he caused too much damage. He grasped his shoulders and Greg helped him secure his arms back so that Sherlock had time to scramble and run away. His footsteps faded down the hallway as he nursed a bruising cheek.

"What a prick." The boy murmured, his anger fading a little.

"Don't provoke him and he won't do it." Greg informed him, helping him to his feet.

John let go of him and gave a weary glance at Greg before striding out of the hallway to catch up with Sherlock. He ran down the dimly lit corridors until he found the long limbed boy sitting awkwardly in a corner near the library doors.

John had known about Sherlock for his entire life at Hailsham, and did not associate with him simply because the boy was not a sociable person. He was strange, and incredibly smart. So much so, that he could tell someone's secrets just by looking at them and he was terrible on the teachers. They were constantly outwitted by his intelligence and his ability to tell what they did outside of school hours. John always found it interesting, but was always too scared to confront the boy about anything.

He was not only strange in his personality, but his looks as well. Sherlock looked like he had yet to grow into his limbs. They stretched out from him with awkward angles and made him look like he was stumbling everywhere. He was only fourteen, but he was taller than the other boys and John by a large margin.

"What do you want?" He called disdainfully from his corner.

John sighed, knowing this was probably a bad idea. "Are you alright?" He asked.

Sherlock looked up at him then, and squinted with his mouth hanging slightly open. His facial features had yet to lose their childish plump and the contrast with the rest of his body made him look like some kind of man child. John almost laughed at the expression, because it was so ridiculous, but he pulled a blank face to show he was serious.

"I'm fine." Sherlock assured. "Just a bruise."

"The Doctor is going to have a bit of concern with it, I think." John said, coming closer with each word.

Sherlock laughed then, and curled his long fingers around his knees. John knew that he was extensively talented in music, especially the violin. He was often excused from classes to play for a small group of people who would write notes while he played and then dismiss him without saying anything at all. John knew this because his friend Sally did the same thing with the piano.

"I think it won't matter, so long as I am not extensively harmed." Sherlock said.

John smiled plainly at him. "Well, supper is soon, would you mind getting up so we can head down to the hall, then?"

"I'm not hungry." The boy returned to staring at his knees, plucking his fingers at invisible strings.

John was standing over him now, and could see the paleness of his skin and the deep brown curls that cascaded down to his forehead. He had a strange urge to touch them, but ignored it.

"C'mon. You can sit with me and Greg." John urged.

Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath and stood in a tall, sweeping motion that made John almost fall back with the suddenness of it. He looked up at the boy, seeing the small red mark on his cheek that would soon turn purple.

"I think its best, John, that people like us don't make friends." Sherlock clipped, his tone devoid of emotion and his stare equally so.

John swallowed back a retort, confused and strangely angry that the boy could be so harsh. But before he worked up the courage to open his mouth, Sherlock was gone, walking silently down the hallway.

What did he mean, people like us? John wondered as he began to make his way to the dining hall. A sour feeling erupted in his stomach that made him feel numb and he did not eat much that night.

The next time John saw Sherlock, it was during Art the next day. He sat tapping his pen against a blank page, thinking of what to write next when he glanced up to see Sherlock watching him. There was a pause, where the entire room seemed to still when they locked eyes. Sherlock did not even try to look away and hide the fact that he was watching him, he simply continued to stare.

John felt his heart speed up, and felt a little defiant, so he stared right back. The mark on his cheek was turning a deep blue color and looked striking on his pale skin. John vaguely wondered how the bruise would feel on Sherlock's skin, the urge to touch it made him clench the pen in his hands a little tighter.

Sherlock smirked at him, and stood up from his table to walk over and sit across from him. John continued to stare as the boy enclosed his long fingers together underneath his chin and took note of the impossibly grey color that was his eyes.

"You write." Sherlock points out.

John gripped the pen a little tighter in his hand and nodded, "Not well. I can't really think of anything now, though." He grumbled.

"Maybe one day your stories will go to The Gallery." Sherlock offers.

John shook his head. "They're not that good. Just little stories."

A pale hand reaches out and laid palm down on the paper in front of him, "I'm sorry for yesterday."

"No apology necessary. You were upset." John stated.

"You were genuinely concerned for me, and I was a prat."

John's eyebrows raised slightly on his forehead as he looked at him. "A bit." He smiled.

Sherlock smiled back, and it seemed as though he was not used to the expression because it looked strange and unused on his face. John bit back a laugh.

"You know." Sherlock looked away then, staring down at his hand on the paper. "W-we could be friends."

"I thought people like us weren't supposed to make friends." John retorted.

It seemed like the boy wasn't used to having his words repeated back to him, because he winced visibly. John licked his lips, preparing to apologize, but Sherlock raised his eyes and looked at him with an expression so determined that the words died on his tongue.

"Okay." John said. "Yeah. We can be friends, of course."

And Sherlock smiled, this time it didn't look so strange and John smiled back. The pale hand retreated back to its owner's side and John let his pen fall to the table. He wouldn't be able to write much, anyway. He didn't know if it was because nothing ever happened to him, or if the dark haired boy in front of him was infinitely more interesting.

* * *

When they were fifteen, there was a new teacher at the school. Miss Adler looked sadly on at the students when she thought they weren't looking. She was beautiful, and young. Her interest in the students seemed to excel that of all the other teachers at Hailsham, and John took notice of the way she noticed Sherlock. He realized that it was the same look he gave the intelligent boy, one filled with curiosity and wonder. She often invited Sherlock to tea in the afternoons and the boy did not turn her down.

One day, when the day was a little overcast, she watched as John and Sherlock went near the gate that separated Hailsham from the rest of the world. Sherlock simply wished to collect a soil sample for an experiment he wanted to run on the bacteria. The lab's microscope was a little old, but he thought he could find out what the differences between the soil at the gate and at the forests edge were.

Despite Hailsham focusing on art and humanities, Sherlock seemed to be the exception. Because of his interest in Chemistry and Biology, the headmistress had allowed a small room to be used as a lab for the boy. She also tried to provide books for the boy to keep him from being bored. John had witnessed the black moods Sherlock tended to get in when he was bored, and he was glad for someone else to be helping to keep them at bay.

When Miss Adler called them over, Sherlock gave her an appraising glance that John recognized he gave to everyone when seeing them. Out of respect, John noticed he said nothing. She asked them what they are doing, and when they told her, she smiled at them.

"Such smart boys." She said fondly.

John blushed and Sherlock glared at her. In the end, she asked why they don't go beyond the fence to get soil samples.

John looked bewildered that she didn't know. "If you go past the gate, they don't let you back in. One girl starved right near the gates because she stepped out and they wouldn't let her come back."

Miss Adler gave him a confused stare. "And why do you think that's true?"

John shrugged. "Why would they make up such terrible stories if they weren't true?"

Sherlock stood to the side, and tried to look interested in the bricks that make up the building. Miss Adler let them leave, and they both tried to ignore the sad glance she gave them as they shuffled inside.

"What do you suppose you want to be when you grow up?" Miss Adler asked one day in class.

Every student exchanges excited glances and hands are raised. Sherlock eyed the woman steadily, his gaze finally taken away from the large textbook in his lap. He's interested in this, John noted as he looked at him.

"Yes, John?" Miss Adler called on him.

John smiled brightly. "I want to be a Doctor."

"Greg?"

"A detective." Greg answered.

Miss Adler asked a few more students what they wanted to be, and then she asked them all to put down their hands. She walked to the window, the silence becoming almost deafening.

"I need you all to understand something, because you have been told but you do not understand." Miss Adler began. "There are a lot of people in this world who get to choose what they want to do when they grow older, and they all have the means to do what suits them to get there."

John felt a tight feeling in his stomach from the serious feeling of the conversation. It made him fold his hands in front of him, and a few other students shuffle around him as well. The room seemed to fill with a thick air that made it hard to breathe.

"However, you are not like these people." Miss Adler looked at them, her eyes ringing with sadness. "You do not get to be doctors or detectives because you are not given that choice. Believe it or not, you were made for one purpose and each of you must fulfill that purpose one day."

She looked back out the window and crossed her arms over her chest. "You're lives are already set out for you, and I am sorry."

John looked over at Sherlock, who was no longer looking at Miss Adler, but at him. His grey eyes were staring observantly at him as though they could read every line in his forehead and thought in his head. He felt watched and yet it did not bother him so much, because under Sherlock's gaze, the fear of Miss Adler's words did not reach him so harshly.

The class finished, and they all left confused and full of a heavy dread that slept soundly in their stomachs as though it belonged there and would never go away.

The next day, Miss Adler was gone.

"She was an idiot." Sherlock said as he laid on his bed with his back to John.

"You've known all this time." John's voice was low and there was no question in it.

Sherlock was silent, and John silently sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at the way Sherlock tensed as soon as the weight of the mattress shifted. In some way, John knew what Miss Adler had told them. He knew that they were not like other children they read about in books because they were taken from a lab instead of a womb. He knew that they had to keep healthy habits by eating right, exercising often, and not taking up habits like smoking. Hailsham professors insisted on these things constantly, and he had filed it away as concern and _things adults probably say_.

"The upper level classes have History books." Sherlock offered as if that was enough explanation.

He turned around so that he could look at John. After being best mates for a year, John knew almost everything about Sherlock. They were thicker than thieves, as many liked to comment. So it did not seem strange at all when John laid out right beside the boy, nudging him to move over so that he could spread lengthwise on the bed. It fit the both of them with little space to offer between them. John looked at the small frays in the sheets and touched them thoughtlessly.

"Will you tell me?"

Sherlock told him everything.

* * *

John laid out on the grass of the field, the clouds absent from the sky that day, making the sun shine brightly down on the two of them. Sherlock sat next to him, silently touching his medical bracelet on his wrist. There wasn't a day he could remember ever being without them. It showed that they were reserved for donation. They meant that one day; they would have to die giving organs to the population that wanted nothing more than to live longer.

John knew that on the outside, where there were cities and hospitals, people lived to be close to one hundred years old. He wondered what a one hundred year old person would look like, and decided that maybe it didn't matter what someone looked like so long as they had more time to live. Because in the end, he figured, living was more important than looks.

He looked over at Sherlock, who had only gotten even taller as they got older. His dark curls grew until they just brushed the tops of his eyebrows, and he had grown into his limbs enough that he no longer stumbled when he walked. Now, he was like a graceful cat-like creature with pale skin and shining grey eyes. John had grown a bit taller, and his hair had brightened to a dull blonde. They were a strange pair, but best friends all the same.

Throughout their years at Hailsham, Sherlock dragged John along for strange experiments and even a few adventures. There wasn't a day that went by that John didn't see Sherlock, and he liked it that way. He felt like his world was too still when Sherlock was not beside him. John craved chaos and the whirlwind that was Sherlock satisfied him just fine.

A few days would send them to the cottages, where they would be free to do what they want and wait for their first notification for donation. John knew that they would complete a lot faster than normal people, and he wanted to make the life that was his worth it all in the end.

"You're thinking so loud, I'm getting a head ache." Sherlock groaned, falling back so his head was on the ground next to John's.

John sucked in a quick breath at how close Sherlock was, reveling in how the scent of grass was stirred up around them and the warmth of a close body radiated at his side. Even though it was almost summer, it was not uncomfortable.

"Sorry." John said. "I'm nervous about the cottages."

Sherlock scoffed. "Really? I'm excited to leave. This place is getting too boring for my liking."

John turned to look at him with a smile on his face. "Do you think I could be a Carer?"

Sherlock returned his stare so that they were facing each other and staring into each other's eyes. John felt a wave of _something _in his stomach.

"You are a caring person, John."

And that was all that he said. To be a Carer would mean he would get to keep the donators company until they completed. And he figured that if he could help anyone that would be the one way to do it. He couldn't be a doctor, but he could care for people who needed it.

He watched as Sherlock closed his eyes, not sleeping but thinking. It was a pose he had seen often in the many years he had known him. Now they were 18 and headed towards the next step in their lives. And John was glad that he was going Sherlock, because there really was no other place he'd rather be.

* * *

Life at the cottages was not what John expected. Other than Sherlock and him, no one else was from Hailsham. They all looked tired and forlorn, which made John feel strangely out of place. The days were dreary because the countryside was so green from all the rain. He found himself taking long walks in rain boots and big coats just to get away.

If he wasn't walking, he was writing. His imagination seemed to spark after leaving Hailsham, and he wrote so much that he wondered if he could send these to The Gallery from here. But he knew they wouldn't take the work to display it because he no longer went to the Boarding School. The stories were mysteries, and he shamelessly placed himself in these stories along with Sherlock.

John wrote stories about a detective who solved impossible crimes with his assistant while traipsing about London in the early hours of the morning. He's modeled the detective after Sherlock, because there is no one he has met who is cleverer. He is sure that if Sherlock is ever presented with fantastic crimes, he would be able to solve them as easily as he can any puzzle.

He wrote himself in as the brave assistant and imagined all the scenarios they could get in if only the stories were real. John would never be a retired Army doctor, but he could certainly write himself as one. Sherlock, however, would always be extraordinary. And somewhere deep inside him, it hurt more to know that such an amazing person was being wasted as a donor. So he wrote out a different story for them, because that is all he can do.

"Must you write so much, John?" Sherlock asked him one day, peering over his shoulder at the notebook.

John snapped it shut. "It's all I have to do." He explained.

Sherlock gave him a steady look and did not question him after that. The household constantly seemed to think they were dating, and while Sherlock ignored them, John simply became flustered and insisted he liked women. So when Sarah asked him to go into town with her one day, he accepted to keep the rumors out of everyone's mouths.

"I really like you, John." She informed him as they drove on the narrow country road.

John smiled at her and when they went to a restaurant, he let her order for him because he did not understand what half of the food was on the menu. He let her talk about the bad telly they watched back at the cottages, and tried to think of what it would be like if he and Sherlock went out on a date like this.

Sherlock probably would refuse to eat, John thought. He was doing that a lot since they arrived at the cottages. The constant reminder that he needed to think clearly for some experiment tumbled from his mouth as an excuse every morning at breakfast. The only person who could get him to eat was John, as many people refused to speak to the man because he was dreadful at conversation and constantly remarked on who was shagging who in the house. Not to mention the business with the mould behind the toaster.

When John returned back from his thoughts, Sarah was still talking and he smiled encouragingly at her. He let her kiss him outside of the car and she tasted like coke and onions, which he thought was a little disgusting. Her lips felt wrong on his and as they drove back, he wondered why that was. That's what everyone else did. At Hailsham, Greg had kissed Molly and they dated through the rest of their time at the school. They even left together to go somewhere in the city to wait for their applications.

"You went out to the diner in town." Sherlock stated from the couch in the living room when John and Sarah got back.

"We had a great time." Sarah said, giving John a small smile.

Sherlock hummed and stood up, standing tall as he walked over to them. "You kissed him, but he only let you do it once. And you're not through with him, no." Sherlock began.

"Sherlock." John warned.

The man ignored him. "Rather than forcing it on him again, you wanted to wait until later tonight. You want to have sexual intercourse with him." Sherlock had paced away from them and was now returning, a shine in his eyes. "But don't you think shagging every new man to come to the house is a little excessive, Sarah?"

Sarah glared at Sherlock, her eyes tearing up. She looked at John and gaped at him like a fish. "You don't believe him, do you?" She asked.

John remained still, his hands at his sides. He took a small step back from Sarah and looked away from her. "I think you should leave." He said.

Sarah did not say anything, simply stood agape at the men before her and turned away to run up the stairs. John let out a sigh, and turned to Sherlock. He looked smug, his eyes watching Sarah fly down the hall and his lips in a smirk.

"Why'd you do that?" John asked.

"Not good?"

"Bit not good, Sherlock." John told him. "Answer my question."

Sherlock looked at him, and gave him the look that meant he was being an idiot. John raised an eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

"Because." Sherlock stepped closer. He got so close that their noses were almost touching. John looked at the man in front of him with reverence and a little bit of fear. He let his eyes wander to Sherlock's lips and he fought the urge to grab the man and push him away in anger. Sherlock raised a challenging eyebrow and leaned in closer, brushing past his cheek to put his lips to John's ear. John was overwhelmed with the man's scent, a mix of rain, soap and something entirely Sherlock.

"You didn't like it when she kissed you, did you?" Sherlock whispered.

John simply gaped at nothing, simply wanting nothing more than to bring his hands up to Sherlock's jaw and turn him back to face him. He was a coward, he decided, as Sherlock drew away and walked down the hall to the kitchen. John stood in the living room for a long time, missing the warmth of Sherlock pressed against him and the feeling of his breath against his skin.

_Oh._

* * *

Eventually, John decided to apply to become a Carer. When he finished filling out the paperwork, he decided to tell Sherlock. When he walked into the man's room to find him reading a large textbook, he realized that some things never changed. His room was always incredibly messy, with papers strewn everywhere and various objects thrown about as though he had decided to try and find something but gave up halfway through and never cleaned up.

"You've filled out the application." Sherlock observed.

John nodded, taking this as an invitation and sitting carefully on the bed to avoid anything that could potentially be under the covers. Sherlock was known for his strange experiments.

"I'm going to be leaving for training." John informed him.

Sherlock nodded, his gaze shifting once more to the book on his lap. His curls fell messily into his eyes and John could not tell whether not he was reading the book at all.

"I just wanted to tell you." John stood up, intending to walk out.

"Why?" Sherlock's voice stopped him.

"What?"

"Why did you want to tell me?" Sherlock asked him simply, turning his eyes to him again.

There was a challenge there, as well as some kind of expectancy. John didn't know what to do with it and let it simmer in the air between them. It made his palms sweaty and he shifted on his feet.

"Because, Sherlock." He began. "You're- You are my best mate."

Sherlock looked at him for a very long moment, his expression a blank mask. He finally looked away and John left, closing the door behind him.

When the bus came to take John away, daylight was slowly disappearing across the rooftops of the cottages. There was a quiet stillness that came with the night in the country, and John wondered if this was one of the last times he would ever experience it. So he stood, with his boots sinking into the muddy ground and his eyes cast towards the cottage where he lived for a year. Beside him, he heard squelching feet approach him and he did not need to turn and look to see who it was.

"Come to say goodbye, then?" He declared.

"Only to you, John." Sherlock said, falling in right beside him so their sides brushed.

There was that threatening warmth that slid up his arm and made his heart stutter deep within his chest. He let it take hold of him and turned to look over at the man he had fallen in love with. It was inevitable, really, he thought. In the blue light of dusk, Sherlock was beautiful. John didn't think that he would ever be able to describe a man as being beautiful, but the man standing beside him was clearly the exception.

So John did what he had wanted to do for weeks. He turned so that he was looking up at Sherlock- his eyes really were like glass pools that he felt he could drown in-and he lifted a shaking hand to his cheek. Touching him like this was so contradictory; it made him let out a small gasp of surprise. He was soft despite all the hard angles of his face except for the small evidence of stubble coming through on his jaw.

"You're more than my best mate." John informed him, as though the man did not know.

"I wanted to see how long it would take you." Sherlock breathed.

John smiled, and raised his chin up so he could get a good angle on the tall man. Sherlock took the hint, and their lips met a moment later. It was like everything John had imagined, and better. There was the scent of Sherlock filling his nose and the taste of him on the inside of his lips and he was so surrounded by the man that it made him groan a little against his mouth.

Sherlock gripped him tighter and drew him closer so that they were embracing, their chests pressed closely to each other. Their heart beats were only a few layers of clothing and skin away from each other, and Sherlock's was beating just as wildly as John's. It was Sherlock who opened his mouth slightly and John let his tongue explore, wanting to memorize everything from the shape of his teeth to the way he tasted.

John withdrew after a few moments and Sherlock tried to make him stay by following his lips, but he gently pushed him away. The taller man let out a small whimper that stirred something in John's stomach. He leaned his forehead against Sherlock's and breathed out a small laugh.

"Bloody hell, we could have been doing that this whole time?" He chuckled.

"We're both too stubborn." Sherlock concluded.

John suddenly realized that he was leaving. He wouldn't see his friend for a long time, and his heart sped up in his chest and he grasped the lapels of the dark coat that shielded Sherlock from the cold night air falling in around them. There was an exchange of worried glances, and he did not know what to do for a long moment. It felt as though he was falling but yet he remained still by keeping hold of the man in front of him.

"I will see you again." Sherlock reassured him. "Go."

"I'm sorry." It was all John could say as he drew himself away from the warmth of Sherlock's body.

Sherlock said nothing, and he watched as John climbed into the small bus to leave. As the bus drove away, John looked back and watched as Sherlock's dark figure faded from distance and the eventual loss of light.

* * *

For five years, John worked as a Carer. He lived in a small apartment, where he woke up and ate breakfast-usually something simple like toast and tea- and then headed straight for the hospital to care for the donors he was assigned to. In the five years he had cared for donors, he saw many die. Most of them from their third donation, if they were lucky.

He thought it was a strange way to live but he had no complaints. If there was anything someone like him could do that was close to being a Doctor, it would be a caring for donors. So he did his job well and learned about the people he met and cared for so that he could eventually make them comfortable before they eventually completed.

His current charge sat slumped in a hospital bed, staring at nothing in particular. He had already gone through two donations and his third was in a few hours. John looked at him sadly while he placed a tin of biscuits on the table next to the bed. Jim looked over at them and a dead smirk appeared on his lips.

"Can't really eat those, can I?" The sarcasm was obvious.

"You can eat them after." John nodded at him, sitting in the guest chair and pulling out a newspaper.

"Do you think I'll make it, Johnnie?" Jim asked, his voice having gone quiet.

John looked at him. The man in front of him was small in stature and had dark eyes. His hair was shaven off, leaving dark fuzz on his head, and he looked gaunt and pale in the bright light of the hospital room. Once, John thought, he was probably a good looking man. When he had finished his first operation, he was not as broken down as this. John remembered an intelligent, strange man who had the tendency to come off a little socially awkward and yet people seemed to like him because he was charming. It reminded him a lot of Sherlock, and he closed his eyes to make the image of dark curls and bright eyes go away.

"I think you'll do fine if you believe you'll do fine." John stated.

Jim laughed. "Did I ever tell you about Sebastian?"

John looked back up from the paper to see Jim looking away, his hands nestled easily in his lap and a soft smile gracing his lips.

"Well, he was the only person I ever considered worth my time." Jim continued. "And you know what little time we have, Johnnie."

John simply stared, wondering where this was going. Jim looked at him and smiled, his eyes a little glazed as though he was looking at something completely different. There was not dreary hospital in Jim's eyes, and the man sitting in front of him wearing a dark green jumper had faded almost certainly to a different time.

"He was mine. And now he's gone. He completed a few months ago." Jim explained.

"People complete, Jim." John said.

Jim snapped out of it, and stared viciously at him. "Yes, John. That is what PEOPLE DO." He barked.

The shout echoed through the room and left a strange feeling behind, as though everything had suddenly shifted just a fraction.

John shifted nervously in his chair, eyeing Jim warily to wait for him to calm down. The exertion made the man breathe heavily for a few moments, his chest small underneath the hospital gown. John didn't know what to say, because the man was right. They did not talk again, and Jim went into his surgery with heavy lidded eyes. John was not surprised when he completed.

It's what they were all born to do, he thought as he signed the release forms.

* * *

The next time he saw Sherlock, it was after the man completed his first donation. John found himself as the man's current Carer, the paperwork displaying his name and his face. In the picture, he looked almost the same as always. His sharp features were a little more refined with age and loss of weight, but his eyes were a light grey that he knew from the constant replay of their close proximity after they kissed all those years ago.

John didn't know what to feel. He had tried to distance himself from the memories as much as possible to keep from missing the man too much. But they seemed to take a hold in his mind and he silently found his thoughts straying to walks at Hailsham with his best friend, or laughing at something he had said at the cottages. Sherlock was not someone he could easily forget, and he felt the pain of his absence every time he remembered.

"John, you can come in." Sherlock called from inside the half closed doorway.

John had been standing outside for a long time, his thoughts racing. What if the man was as broken as Jim? He realized that he had left Sherlock behind, and it made a heavy feeling fall in his stomach. Eventually, he laid a hand on the door handle and walked inside cautiously.

Sherlock sat upright in the hospital bed, his head leaning back on white pillows. He was skinnier from when he last saw him, and his eyes looked to be a bit gaunt. But that was only from the recent surgery, John insisted. He wondered what they had taken, and it made him shiver to know that Sherlock was missing an organ simply because that is what he was made to do.

"Sherlock." John greeted.

Sherlock eyed him with the same look John had seen thousands of times. He was deducing him down to the scuffs on his shoes and it made the man shift awkwardly in place. It was something he had forgotten to be used to and it made his heart surge to be looked at so closely once again. No one ever looked as closely at him as Sherlock.

"You've done well for yourself, John." Sherlock complimented as a small smile formed on his lips.

"And how are you?" John asked.

Sherlock smirked. "Bored."

"Not going to throw any dishes at the wall, then?" John laughed while recalling a memory from the cottages.

Sherlock eyed him warily and dramatically fell further into the pillows. It was like he had never left at all.

"You do underestimate me, John. Did you bring me anything? Don't Carers give gifts?" Sherlock asked earnestly. He stretched out his hands, his fingers extending so long that they almost touched John despite him being a few steps from the bed.

John raised a plastic bag up so Sherlock could see that there were, in fact, gifts. He opened it and threw an orange at the mad man, who caught it easily in his hands and began tearing at the skin of it. John began to take out the various other items he brought, which included an old Chemistry textbook from the 1960's and a book of Sudoku that was starting to be popular in the shops around town.

"You know me so well." Sherlock mused.

"Well, I was your best mate." John said.

"Aren't we still best mates?" Sherlock asked him.

And John gave him a worried eye and the conversation took a turn for the serious at that moment. It made him want to look away and carry on but Sherlock was looking at him again. Their eyes met, and Sherlock smirked.

"Ah." He said.

John gulped back an answer, and stood up straight to find a chair. Sherlock picked up the textbook and flipped through it nonchalantly until John finally took a seat next to the bed. He turned to his old friend and gave him a real smile, something John hadn't seen for so long.

"A little more than that, I see." Sherlock added.

John tentatively reached out with a shaking hand and took hold of Sherlock's hand that sat at his side. There were no words after that, just the rustling of pages and John memorizing the warmth of Sherlock's hand in his.

They did not talk about it because it did not need to be discussed. It was as easy as slipping into a warm bath at the end of a long day. Their relationship continued on from where it left off and John had never been happier. Sherlock stayed in the hospital for a week after his surgery and when he emerged from the white walled building with a small bag in his hands, John was waiting for him.

"Are you certain you want to move in?" Sherlock asked as he entered the car.

John nodded, starting up the vehicle. "How you found someone willing to take donors as tenants, I have no idea." He added.

Sherlock smiled and placed his hand lightly on top of John's. They held hands the rest of the way, until they finally reached 221B Baker Street.

"Mrs. Hudson is rather doting, I should warn." Sherlock informed him as he knocked on the door.

"Well, you should need it now that you've started donating." John said.

Sherlock grinned at him. "Now I've got you, John."

They shared heated looks, where John wasn't sure if he should kiss him. The urge came too much in the past week, and he pushed it back like all the other times because there was always something there to interrupt them. This time it was the door being opened by a small woman who clapped happily at seeing them.

"Oh, Sherlock dear. You look wonderful. Do come in." She ushered them inside with a motherly voice and a firm hand at their backs. John immediately liked her.

"This is John, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock told her, locking his fingers around John's wrist and bringing him closer.

"Oh, lovely. I've heard so much about you, dear." Mrs. Hudson said, smiling brightly at him.

"It's so nice to meet you, Mrs. Hudson." John said.

"Well, you two go get some rest upstairs, then. I'll bring up some tea later, yes?" She puttered off, motioning them up the stairs all the while.

Sherlock gave her a fond look, something John had rarely seen before on his face and it made him feel a little warmer inside. He grasped for his hand and the tall man looked down at him with a light flickering brightly in his eyes.

"The flat, John." Sherlock urged, running up the steps as though he had not recently donated at all.

John followed, and entered through the door with a little less dramatic flair. But the flat. The flat was bigger than any flat he'd ever been in. It made him gasp a little as he realized that this was all _theirs._

"Sherlock." John called.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock appeared from the kitchen entryway, scarf still wrapped around his neck and coat billowing behind him.

"Sherlock, this flat is huge." John said.

The dark haired man took a sweeping glance through the whole room and nodded. "So it is." He acknowledged, before walking up to John with two long strides.

John looked up at him. The amazing, wonderful man he'd known most of his life looked down at him and smirked. Sherlock's gloved hand rested lightly on John's shoulder.

"You know you think rather loudly?" Sherlock pointed out quietly.

John just stared. He took in the way Sherlock's lips moved when he spoke, and then moved down to the neck that was currently covered by a scarf. John raised his hands to tug lightly at the fabric, and he pulled it away so the man's neck was exposed. Sherlock continued to look at him with half lidded eyes, yet still radiating the feeling that he was observing everything that he possibly could.

"No interruptions this time, John." Sherlock urged.

John nodded and brought his lips to the underside of Sherlock's jaw. He heard the intake of breath just as much as he felt it against his lips. It made him smirk, and he kissed a line down the man's jaw, working his way towards the muscle in his neck. When his lips finally touched the dip above his chest, Sherlock grabbed him and drew his head up. His pupils were dilated and his face was deeply flushed. John didn't realize how his breathing had changed as well; he brought a hand up to his chest and felt the hammering heart against his fingertips.

That was when Sherlock kissed him. And it was completely different from their first, because this was not kissing. This was trying to see who could swallow the other first, and it was so good. It was full of teeth and hot breath that threatened to fill him until he burst. Sherlock brought his hands up to his jaw and held him firmly in place. They broke away for air simply because it was necessary.

Their foreheads met, and with his eyes closed, John could feel Sherlock's breath against his lips. He found the man's lips this time, gently pressing them as though to make up for the roughness from before. John felt a swelling in his chest and when Sherlock licked his bottom lip, John let out a small moan. Sherlock kissed him like he was trying to memorize the exact topography of the inside of his mouth, and John loved it. He grasped Sherlock's coat in his hands and brought him closer.

Sherlock drew away, "Bedroom?"

John nodded, eyes still closed.

* * *

John did not notice until later. Sherlock would grab at his side, where the scar from the surgery rested in a red line across his pale skin. The man would run out of breath easily, and he slept a lot more than usual. It was after coming back from a shopping trip that John found him slumped over on the kitchen floor. He was a mess of limbs and in the pallid light of the kitchen, he looked gaunt.

"Sherlock!" John dropped the bags and rushed to the man's side.

He stirred and looked up at John with half closed eyes. Then, they widened as he realized where he was. Sherlock clenched his hands tightly as he stood, John following with shaking legs.

"I must have fallen asleep." Sherlock concluded, resting a hand on the counter beside him.

John let out a loud huff of air, not realizing he had not been breathing at all. He felt the oxygen filter through his lungs and stared at the man in front of him with concerned eyes. Sherlock looked at him and gave him a small smile that shattered John's control. John wrapped his arms gently around the man and tried to breathe easily once again, as though the simple smell of Sherlock would aide in his oxygen intake.

After several long moments, Sherlock wrapped his arms around the shorter man. The groceries were not picked up until a while later.

The next few weeks passed so quickly, with John working two Carer cases and Sherlock experimenting in the kitchen to keep from being bored. After a long day at the hospital where his recent donor had completed after their second surgery, he found Sherlock lounging on the couch. He was lying with his face to the back of the couch, and John walked up to him, silently wondering what was wrong.

"Letter on the table." Sherlock's muffled voice informed him.

John felt his blood run a little cold as he tentatively made his way to the coffee table, where a blue envelope sat opened and hastily placed into a mess of other papers.

"Your second donation." John whispered.

Sherlock tensed, his whole body shaking. The blue night gown he had on made him look small and John did not know what to do. He wanted to take the man in his arms and let him stay there, never to let him go. Maybe then, they would never have to complete. In the small, happy life he lived with the man, he often forgot they were meant to be donors. He forgot their purpose.

Sherlock suddenly sat up, turning over to look at John with red rimmed eyes. He looked more shaken than John had ever seen him, and it made his heart ache in his chest. John walked up to him and took his hands securely in his.

"What if…" Sherlock let the thought trail off.

"You won't." John said.

He sat on the couch next to him and with his coat and shoes still on; he brought the shaking man to his chest and wound his arms around him. John lowered his lips to the top of his head and felt the soft strands of hair against his skin.

"This is all going too fast." Sherlock said. "There isn't enough time."

John gripped him tighter, "Rest." He said.

After a few long moments, Sherlock fell asleep like that, against his chest. John stared blankly out in front of him, realizing that the man was right; that they did not have enough time. Perhaps they never would have enough time.

* * *

He sat next to Sherlock's bed and looked at the man as though he would never see him again. There was always that possibility with them. Unlike the rest of the population, they did not get a little more than a hundred years to live. So he picked the moments he was allowed to be selfish carefully. He lifted a hand to gently trace the side where Sherlock had his last surgery. John knew that scar like the back of his own hand. He had traced it numerous times in the dark while Sherlock had made glorious sounds from underneath his careful fingertips. The man in the bed drew in a loud breath when John splayed his whole palm out onto his stomach.

"I don't think there is much to worry about." Sherlock said.

John shook his head, as if to clear the thought of losing the man in front of him from his mind. He felt an ache tear through his chest and tightened his fingers against Sherlock's skin, the heartbeat underneath increased and he was assured. He looked up at Sherlock with a steady glance, his mouth set in a thin line and eyebrows furrowed neatly on his forehead.

"I love you." he admitted.

Sherlock took both hands from his sides and placed them on top of John's. He stared at the way their hands were so opposite. His, thin and long and pale in the white overhead lights of the hospital; and John's, a lighter pink color, thick and calloused from the writing he did.

"Will you tell me what you write about?" Sherlock asked him.

John felt something knot in his throat, because this was something that belonged to his fantasies. He had hopes and dreams that we're romanticized in his journals, where no one had ever looked before. But he knew that it couldn't hurt to let the man he loved know about it. Sherlock owned everything that mattered about him anyway.

"I've been writing since the cottages." John explained. "And it's all about us."

Sherlock gave him a curious look, and urged him to continue with a tight squeeze of his hand.

"They're all stories about you being a detective and solving crimes in London." John smiled at this, the image fondly regarded in his mind. "And I'm your assistant."

"Are we happy?" Sherlock asked.

John tightened his hand against Sherlock's skin, sure enough to leave slight marks and nodded earnestly at him.

"We are happy because despite how much we go through, we end up perfectly alright and together." John assured him.

Sherlock gave him a small smile. "I'll have to read them, you know. To see if you have rendered me adequately on paper."

John laughs and stands to press a light kiss to the man's lips. He chuckles as he pulls away.

"Of course. I'll bring them tomorrow." he said.

And he did. Sherlock sat with the journals every day until the day of his surgery. He got through all of them with a satisfied smile and an occasional threat to John's ability to name cases. He insisted that 'A Study in Pink' was a little absurd, but after reading through it, thoroughly kissed him until John could barely breathe.

The day of the surgery, John sat in the chair next to the bed like every day. He held the man's hand and traced patterns with his thumb against his skin. Sherlock stared at him, his eyes never leaving his face. John knew that by now, the man had probably memorized every expression and line in his face. But this was something different. It was like John was the center of his entire universe.

"Will you write more stories?" Sherlock asked.

"Did you like them, then?" John replied, eyes crinkling up in amusement.

Sherlock insisted that there were a lot of things wrong with his stories. There could be more detail, or the way he spoke was not like that all, and would he please tell him where he'd gotten the Moriarty character from. John knew that Sherlock loved the stories, though. It was in the way he would look at John after he'd finished one, his eyes bright and fascinated.

Sherlock glared at him. "Please, John." He said.

John stopped at that, because Sherlock rarely ever said please. "Hey."

Sherlock gripped his hand a little tighter. "John." He repeated.

"Okay, yeah. I will. We'll go and stop Moriarty, how's that?" John assured him.

Sherlock relaxed against the pillows and John smiled at him. The last time John kissed Sherlock, he tasted like mint toothpaste and he smelled like disinfectant.

John sat in the waiting room for hours, his eyes staring glassily out at nothing at all. He stood after a nurse came and touched his arm, and decided to drive back to Baker Street. When he arrived, he took in the strange flat, with its small experiments that were making the rooms smell a little like mould and the skull that sat simply on the mantelpiece. He fell to his knees and let the sensation of loss take him, drowning him until there was nothing but the memories of Sherlock swarming every sense and the flat was still and quiet and wrong.

* * *

The next adventure John wrote involved a fall and a grave, which was something the real Sherlock never got. He didn't leave the flat for a week.

* * *

John drove to Hailsham because he wanted to see where it all started. He wanted one last look at the childhood he had, where everything seemed possible and right. When he arrived, the school was sitting empty and run down in the middle of a large field. In a few months, he would be starting donation. The thought did not worry him too much, because he knew it was inevitable.

It had been a few months since Sherlock had completed, and John was back to the still and quiet life he'd only experienced twice in his life. Once, before he and Sherlock became friends, and the second after he left the cottages. It was strange and he didn't like one moment of it.

He did not get much time with Sherlock, but he supposed that was the human condition; wanting more time. And as he looked out at the field stretching before him bathed in the yellow light of the sunset, he wished for nothing else but more time. For now, their time was complete and he had nothing but the memories. He would eventually complete, just as Sherlock had. But he no longer wanted to delay the inevitable. Unconsciously, he supposed he ran away from donating by becoming a Carer.

The journal that he carried everywhere sat heavily in his hands, filled with all the possibilities and imaginations John could think of in his short time. He absentmindedly ran his hand over the top of the book and began to dig in the dirt outside the gate. As he filled the hole, the book being swallowed by the brown dirt, he knew that no one would find it. He didn't mind because it had always been something private.

As he looked once more out onto the school grounds where he had grown up, he knew that somewhere beyond his completion and his understanding, Sherlock was waiting for him. And wherever that was, perhaps they were living out the life written in the pages of a journal. A consulting detective and his assistant solving crimes and finding each other at the end of the day, knowing that despite the risks and tribulations they were undoubtedly _home_ with each other.

John would not have it any other way.


End file.
